“Not that we expect anyone to come looking,” Claude said, “but if anyone arrives, they will not see the door. We will cover it with a few bales of hay for the night.”
Thomas climbed down into the cellar, the bundle of clothes tucked under one arm, and within five minutes, he was fast asleep on the cold, hard floor.
In what felt like no time at all, light poured into the cellar, waking him. Thomas blinked into the sudden brightness and saw Claude’s face in the opening overhead. “Hope you slept well, friend,” he said. “Now put those clothes on, and fast. It is just past dawn, and you need to get into the woods before the Nazis are awake.”
Thomas dressed quickly, and even though the clothes were a bit tight—he had to leave the pants half-undone and he couldn’t fasten the top two buttons on his shirt—the shoes fit surprisingly well. He climbed the ladder, clutching his flight suit and boots. “I’ll take these with me and bury them,” he told Claude. “I don’t want you to get caught with them.”
Claude nodded and handed Thomas a small parcel. “Here is a bit of bread and cheese and a jug of water to get you through until you reach Paris.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh, that is simple,” Claude said, putting a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “You get back to England, and when you return to the skies, give those Nazis hell. We are going to win this war, and we need men like you to do it.”
“And men like you,” Thomas said with a smile.
Claude shrugged. “I am merely a farmer. Now, be on your way before the Nazis catch your trail. Godspeed.” He pointed in the direction of the woods before turning away and walking slowly back toward the farmhouse. The lights were on inside, and Thomas could see Henriette’s silhouette in the kitchen window. For a moment, he felt a strange surge of jealousy. Though Claude’s life was obviously hard—it was clear in the light of day that the Nazis had razed his farm—he was still doing some good, and he had a nice home and a woman who loved him. What would it be like to have that kind of peace in one’s life? Would it help make the work he did easier? For the first time in a while, Thomas felt painfully lonely. He raised a hand toward the house, just in case Henriette was watching, and then he set off into the woods. With his ankle wrapped, his belly somewhat full, and a good night’s sleep behind him, he felt ready for what was to come.
THE REMAINDER OF THE JOURNEY took Thomas three days. He had to stay away from the main roads, which meant that the terrain was harder on his injured ankle. Still, Henriette’s bandage helped, as did the bread and cheese she and Claude had packed. Thomas was hungry and parched by the time he reached the outskirts of Paris, but he would have been near starving without them.
Thomas spent the last day of his walk trying to perfect his French accent, repeating aloud to himself again and again, “Excuse me? Do you know where I can find an art gallery that specializes in ballet? I’m supposed to meet a friend there.” By the time he’d slept and emerged from the woods the next morning, he felt he had it mostly down, but he’d need to be careful.
As he began to move through Paris’s suburbs, he kept his eyes on the ground, but he was sure he could feel people staring. He must have looked odd—like a hobo, perhaps—as he trudged along in rumpled farm clothes. Still, when he dared glance around, he saw plenty of people in ill-fitting, grimy clothes, which both relieved and depressed him. It would be easier to go unnoticed, certainly, but at the same time, he had always imagined Paris as a glamorous place, and the reality was that the city was just as downtrodden as London.
It was early afternoon by the time he arrived in Paris proper. He stopped the first man who made eye contact with him and asked him, in the French accent he’d rehearsed, about the location of the gallery, but the man only shook his head and hurried on. Two more requests for information were met with the same blank looks, and Thomas was beginning to get worried. Surely pausing to find a map would draw unneeded attention to himself. And he didn’t want to be wandering the streets any longer than absolutely necessary. There were German soldiers everywhere, strolling around in their uniforms, lunching at cafés, even escorting French girls, which made Thomas’s skin crawl. Tour buses overflowing with laughing German soldiers rumbled down the grand boulevards, and the ball of anger in Thomas’s stomach tightened.
He thought hard as he walked with purpose, doing his best to look like he belonged. Harry had mentioned the shop being close to the Eiffel Tower, hadn’t he? Perhaps that was the key, then: head for the tower and simply walk the streets nearby until he stumbled upon the place. It was the best plan he could come up with anyhow, and he knew the clock was ticking. Paris surely had a curfew. He couldn’t be wandering around after dark without drawing attention to himself.
“Can you direct me to the Eiffel Tower?” he asked a man who passed by. The man gave him a strange look, but he pointed behind him, explaining to Thomas that he needed to go a long way, following the main boulevard as it turned into the rue Montmartre and then the rue du Louvre. After he crossed the river, he was to turn right at the quai and follow the Seine until the Eiffel Tower loomed in front of him.
Thomas couldn’t help but notice, as he continued on, how beautiful the city actually was. The Nazis had taken much of the life out of it, it seemed, for the gardens were bare and the window boxes of many apartments were filled with dying plants instead of the flowers Thomas had seen in pictures. Passersby seemed defeated, their expressions as dark and worn as their clothing. The cafés were largely empty, except those bustling with Germans.
But beyond the signs of occupation, Thomas could see why people said Paris was one of the loveliest places in the world. His parents had come here on holiday before he was born, and his mother had always talked of it with nostalgic delight. The things she had mentioned—the beautiful old buildings, the ornate lampposts, the wide avenues, the meticulous landscaping—were still evident, and Thomas could imagine how the city must look in all its glory. “I finally made it to Paris, Mum,” he said softly as he crossed the river. He could see the Eiffel Tower off to the right in the distance. “Now I’m in need of a bit of luck.”
Unfortunately, four hours later, the sun was inching toward the horizon, and Thomas still hadn’t located the gallery, despite going up and down so many side streets that his head was beginning to spin. He had no backup plan, and he was mumbling to himself in frustration and looking down at the sidewalk when he found his path blocked.
He looked up, startled, and swallowed hard when he realized that he had nearly crashed into a Nazi soldier. The man was standing in full dress uniform in the middle of the sidewalk glowering at Thomas. He barked something in unintelligible German, and Thomas stared at him miserably, sure that he’d been caught. Was there a way to run? It seemed like the end of the line. The man said something else, seeming to wait for an answer, and finally, Thomas said in French, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak German.”
The man eyed him and then, surprisingly, switched to French too. “You French are imbeciles. Don’t you know German will be your national language soon enough?”
Thomas was too startled to reply right away. It took a few seconds to register that the man hadn’t stopped him because he believed he was an RAF pilot. He believed him to be a Parisian. “Right,” Thomas finally managed to say in French. He knew his accent was lousy, but he suspected the German wouldn’t notice, since his own accent was even worse. “Excuse me.”
The man snorted. “Now, as I was asking, where are you going?”
Thomas hesitated. “To an art gallery.”
The man looked him up and down. “What sort of art gallery?”
“One that specializes in ballet-themed art.” Thomas felt foolish.
“You? A laborer? What could your business there possibly be?”